


Had you all wrong from the beginning

by Fatale (femme)



Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M, Multi, SO MUCH FLUFF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-11 23:03:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sex is easy. Relationships are hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Had you all wrong from the beginning

Had you all wrong from the beginning  
Peter/Neal (implied Peter/Neal/El)  
PG-13  
WC: 2,500  
Humor. A little cracky. Some jokes about prison gangbangs made in extremely poor taste. A little bit o’ sick!fic.  
A/N: This was about Neal being less-than-elegant, then I wandered away from it for a month. When I came back, it was all about Peter being kind of lousy at new relationships. Go figure!

Spoilers: Refers to the season finale/last season in nebulous, hand-wavy ways.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The things is, sex isn’t all that awkward. Your body knows what to do, was made for it even.

The mornings after, that’s what’ll get you.

 

\--

 

Peter rolls out of bed early, careful not to wake El or Neal, vague dread and excitement thrumming in his veins. He stumbles into the kitchen and pulls out the ingredients for eggs florentine - onions, garlic, spinach, cream, eggs.

Some might call it creepy to plan a fancy breakfast for the first morning after fantastic sex with your ex-partner, but Peter thinks it’s just good preparedness.

It’s not like he’s practiced making eggs florentine like twenty times to be sure he could do it right or anything.

 

\--

 

Neal shuffles in, lids heavy with sleep, not quite awake. His hair is tousled and he’s scratching his belly -- it should be alarming how much affection Peter feels for him.

“Eggs florentine,” Peter says, feeling a proud grin tug at his mouth.

“Coffee,” Neal mumbles, “need coffee.”

“Oh, sure,” Peter says and turns off the burner, sets the skillet aside. He hurries to pour him a cup, except Neal already has a mug full of coffee and he’s stirring a pack of sugar into it and sighing blissfully as he takes a sip.

Neal stumbles to the table and sits down, frowning at his cup of coffee like it’s done something personally to offend him.

“Are you hungry?”

“Nah,” Neal says around a jaw-cracking yawn. “Don’t usually eat breakfast.”

It’s early, that’s why it takes Peter a minute to react.

“I - uh, yeah, okay,” Peter says.

So Neal doesn’t want his crappy eggs, it’s okay. It’s cool.

It’s totally fine.

 

\--

 

It is not fine.

Most of Peter’s day is spent obsessing over why Neal doesn’t want his terrible breakfast. He’s seen Neal eat breakfast, he’s sure of it. Neal made Sara breakfast that one morning -- which, okay, actually, Peter ended up eating. It was really good.

And--

So he hasn’t ever seen Neal eat breakfast before. The new information slots itself into the mental folder marked ‘Neal Caffrey’ and Peter feels his mental image of Neal shift slightly, all the facts he thought he knew sliding together and shuffling themselves up like a deck of cards, suddenly, hopelessly out of order.

 

\--

 

The thing is, Peter’s not generally a fly by-the-seat-of-his-pants kind of guy, if he can help it. He’s adaptable, sure, but when it comes to relationships, they’re _important_ and he approaches them more like a chess game - three moves ahead, endgame in sight.

When he realized his feelings about Neal were, you know, _sexy feelings_ , he ignored them. And when they didn’t go away, he _planned_.

And planned. And planned.

He re-read Neal’s FBI file (which El said was deeply creepy; Peter didn’t agree), turned over all the facts he knew about Neal in his head, may or may not have written pertinent information on a whiteboard in bullet point format, possibly couldn’t sleep, and may have begun regularly asking Neal if he was thirsty.

(Later, Neal would confess that he found Peter’s behavior during this time slightly charming, also unnerving.)

The point of all of that is, if anyone knows Neal, it’s Peter. Peter’s studied his file for years, knows his birthday(s) by heart, 99% of his methods for lock-picking and at least fourteen aliases. But knowing facts about someone doesn’t translate to _understanding_ them and nothing in Neal’s file or personal experience has prepared him to come home to Neal curled up on the couch with _The Brothers Karamazov_ open on his lap, finger carelessly marking his spot, raptly watching Jersey Shore and muttering, “Oh, Snookie, you could do so much better than Jionni,” in a soft voice.

It’s shocking, amusing, head-scratchingly perplexing.

It feels a little like falling in love all over.

 

\--

 

Sex is easy. Relationships are hard.

 

\--

 

It’s not snooping if someone leaves a shaving kit bag unattended in your house, or so Peter tells himself as he worms the zipper down and pokes a finger curiously inside. Finders keepers and all that. The fact that he’s using logic generally employed by toddlers doesn’t escape him.

Nothing terribly out of the ordinary in the bag, all of it well made, of course. Neal doesn’t _do_ disposable razors.

“Find anything interesting?” Neal asks from the doorway, arms crossed faux-casually across his chest.

“I’m not doing anything,” Peter says quickly and snatches his hand back guiltily. _I’m just desperately trying to figure you out like a teenage girl with her first crush,_ he carefully doesn’t add.

“That would be comforting,” Neal says easily, “if I were accusing you of anything.”

“I uh, just. Shaving cream,” Peter says. “I needed shaving cream. For my face.”

See, Peter _feels_ himself babbling like a loser, he just _can’t seem to stop himself._

“Help yourself.” Neal gestures at the bag before leaving Peter alone in the bathroom, hands jammed in his pockets and feeling more confused than ever.

 

\--

 

Neal’s drinking coffee, his fourth cup, not that Peter’s counting, but Peter worries about Neal’s blood pressure, okay? That much caffeine can’t be good for him.

Peter’s (not really) learned his lesson about poking into Neal’s parents, but that doesn’t stop him from slithering up to Neal and asking, “What was your mom like?”

Neal chokes on his coffee. “What--”

“Your mother, your mom, the woman who birthed you.”

“Jesus, did you just say _birthed_ to me?” Neal’s busy dabbing at the coffee he sprayed all over the front of his shirt. “Because I hope you didn’t. I hope I was hallucinating. Badly.”

“I might have,” Peter says, trying his hardest not to look shady. This -- this isn’t going as well as he thought  it would.

“She was fine,” Neal says mulishly, still looking a little peeved about the coffee.

“No stories? Memories?”

“No.”

“Nothing?”

Peter feels a small bead of sweat trick down his back. This really isn’t going right. When he imagined this scenario, he’d thought they’d talk, swap stories, he’d maybe get some insight into the Rubik’s Cube that Neal called a brain. And Neal would be grateful for someone to confide in and they’d bond and possibly have some warm and sexy times.

Instead, Neal’s eyeballing him suspiciously, he has brown stains all over his nice blue button-down and Peter kind of feels like he’s running an interrogation. Which he knows from personal experience does not make Neal feel sexy.

 

\--

 

Relationships are one thing, it’s love that’s the _bitch_.

 

\--

 

“Talk to Neal,” El says, sounding so reasonable and _grown-up_.

“Why would I do that?” Peter asks with vague horror.

“You’re bring ridiculous, talk to Neal.” She mutters something that sounds like, _Stupid men_ , but Peter’s too busy adding more mayo to his deviled ham sandwich and thinking about the best way to acquire Neal’s high school yearbook to listen.

 

\--

 

The flu is tearing through New York. It seems like everywhere Peter turns, people are loudly blowing their noses and coughing into their arms.

Neal texts Peter a quick, _Sick, will see tmrw maybe._

Peter stares at the phone for a full minute before deciding to stop by on his way home to check on Neal.

 

\--

 

“Come in,” Neal croaks.

He’s sprawled on the bed, movements slow and weighted. His eyes are glassy, wary, tracking Peter’s movements.

“Here,” Peter says and hands him a bottle of water.

“Thanks,” Neal says, voice scratchy. He sits up, twists the cap off and downs half in a few grateful gulps. “God, I needed that.”

“Why didn’t you ask me for help?” Peter asks cautiously. Trying to get answers out of Neal when he doesn’t feel like talking is about as pleasant as chewing on tinfoil.

Neal avoids his gaze. “Ah, you seemed busy and I’m not that bad.”

“I’m never too busy for you,” Peter says, exasperated.

Neal flops back down on his bed, limbs loose, a light sheen of sweat across his chest. He’s sick, burning up; Peter can feel the heat rolling off him in waves and to his great shame, Peter has never wanted to lick him more.

Neal looks up absently before his gaze sharpens with understanding. “Wait -- Is this. Are you flirting with me again?”

“No,” Peter says quickly.

“Because,” Neal muses slowly, thoughtfully, “this is how you flirt with people.”

“It’s just water,” Peter points out.

Neal continues, “This is really unnecessary. Flattering, but unnecessary.” He flashes Peter a quick, playful grin. “You know I’m a sure thing.”

“I’m never sure of anything with you, Neal,” Peter confesses.

“You know me better than anyone else.”

“You’re obviously delirious,” Peter says and can’t help the rush of warm affection that pools in his chest.

“Quite possibly,” Neal agrees eyes blinking rapidly as he fights sleep.

Peter stretches out next to Neal carefully on the bed and Neal yawns, and curls into his side like a big cat.

“I’d break laws for you,” Neal mumbles with great significance, which kind of escapes Peter, because honestly? Neal breaks laws all the time. Sometimes just for fun.

“Yeah, ditto,” Peter says, without thinking. Because it’s true. He would do stupid things for Neal, has done, and will do again. It’s not something he wants to dwell on.

“So what was prison like? You never said.”

“You know, mostly boredom.”

“No gangbangs in the communal shower -- I’m sure I saw the exact same set-up on Skinemax.”

Peter mentally glosses right over the part where Neal confessed to watching terrible pornography and says, “I was only there for a week. And on protective custody. You _know_ this.”

“Did they hold you down, use your body--”

“This is really gross, Neal--”

“Did the guards have to save you--”

“I hope this is the fever talking.”

Peter looks at Neal, the hint of teasing smile around his lips, and feels unbearably fond. He reaches a hand up, palms the strong line of his jaw, the faint hint of stubble rasping in the quiet. “There may have been guards,” he says finally, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of Neal’s mouth, germs be damned.

“How many were there?”

“Four or five. They had to pull the men off of me.”

“I bet you were a treat in prison.”

“Because I’m a cop,” Peter says, more of a question, because he’s not really sure where this is going to end. Probably nowhere he’s going to like.

“Because you’re delicious,” Neal corrects, punctuating his statement by licking two of Peter’s fingers languidly.

Peter just sort of forgets wherever this crazy, made-up talk is going because Neal’s tongue is probably the eighth Wonder of the World, right next to Stonehenge and the Hagia Sophia. He watches Neal’s mouth suck down two of his fingers, teeth flashing white as he nips playfully at the tips with a lazy smile. Peter closes his eyes, lets his mind focus on the white-hot warmth of Neal’s mouth against his skin, his lips, his hair, the sunlight glinting off the glossy almost-curls.

“Fuck, I’m too tired,” Neal says, finally. “The spirit is willing but the flesh, you know.”

“Your flesh will be here later,” Peter promises. “Rest now.”

“Peter?”

“Hm?”

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

Peter sits up, sees a trashcan and drags it over to the bed, where Neal is spectacularly sick all over the trashcan and partially on Peter’s left shoe.

“Jesus,” Neal says raggedly, “shit -- I’m so sorry, Peter.”

Neal looks acutely embarrassed as if being seen as anything other than pristine is some kind of personal failure. He flops back on the bed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Peter puts the trashcan down, toes off his shoes and slides back into bed with Neal. “What’s there to be sorry for?”

“No sex, no good conversation -- just me puking all over you. I’m great company.”

“I didn’t come over here for those things,” Peter says, because what the fuck. “You’re _sick_.”

“You can go home now.”

“Why the hell would I do that--” Peter says and then it hits him.

The weird sex conversation, the jokes -- Neal feels like _shit_ and he still thinks he has to put on a show for Peter. Sometimes, Neal reminds him of the popular kids in his high school -- too good-looking, easily charismatic, life sweet and waveless, and Peter had only been able to observe them as a whole, colored with a little envy, forever etched in his memory as pristine and larger than life.

But Neal is just a person, like everyone else, and Peter thinks about how long he’s wasted only seeing what Neal wanted him to.

“Go home, Peter,” Neal says more severely.

Neal’s groaning softly, turning away from him, face shuttering quietly, the easy calm of their conversation bleeding away as he tucks all the embarrassing, messy parts of himself up, when Peter stops him, rests a hand on his cheek to keep him in place.

Peter looks Neal squarely in the eyes and tries to infuse his voice with all the shades of meanings he has, all the feelings churning in his chest,  love and acceptance and startling realization: “Jesus, Neal, I’ve got your number now,” he says quietly, and also, “You smell like puke.”

It startles a laugh out of Neal. “Who says romance is dead?”

Peter runs a hand through Neal’s mussed hair, over his flushed and too-hot neck. He says, “Give it some time. Soon, you’ll learn to live with the disappointment of having me for a husband, too. Just ask El.”

Neal pulls back, looks at him strangely for a moment. “That’s planning an awful lot ahead.”

“Yeah, just -- yeah, of course,” Peter says. “I just mean, I’m here to stay. You know, as long as you want me, if I haven’t fucked it all up with the weirdness--”

“The going through my stuff, the overbearing behavior--”

“Yeah, that stuff,” Peter interrupts.

Neal shrugs. “S’okay.”

“No, it really isn’t,” Peter says and after a pause, “how long have you been waiting for me to get this right?”

“A while,” Neal says, with a shrug, pale and sickly, and absolutely stunning.

“I’m here now,” Peter says seriously, looking at Neal.

“So you are.”

 And Neal -- Neal doesn’t look away.

 

\--

 

Falling in love is simple. But truly knowing someone and loving them?

About a thousand times better.

 

\--

 

“Hey,” Neal calls out, “are you going to watch Project Runway with me and El?”

“Hold on,” Peter yells back and slides the pot roast in the oven, sets the timer. “Don’t start without me.”

Neal’s Cap'n Crunch cereal sits out on the counter where Neal left it earlier (prize long-gone, fished out on the first day), along with his half-full bowl and spoon, because Neal has a habit of getting excited and wandering away from food, always meaning to get back to it but never succeeding.  Peter touches the bowl lightly before putting it away, then the cereal, leaving the counter clean and uncluttered, an empty expanse for Neal to slowly pour his secrets onto, one by one.

And Peter will be patiently waiting and watching.

 

 

 

The end.


End file.
